“Hold tongue, Uncle,” snapped the girl, and continued to feed her patient.
“I suppose I must thank you?” taunted Reivers, when the bowl was empty.
Hattie MacGregor made no sign to indicate that she had heard. She put the bowl away, felt Reivers’ pulse, laid her hand upon his forehead—never looking at him the while—arranged the pillows under his head, tucked him in and without speaking went out. Reivers’ eyes followed her till the door closed behind her.
“The little spitfire!” he growled in grudging admiration; and Duncan MacGregor, by the fire, laughed till the room echoed.
CHAPTER XXV—GOLD!
Next morning when she came to feed him Reivers angrily reached for the bowl. He was stronger than the day before, and he held his hands forth without trembling.
“There’s no need of your feeding me by hand any longer,” said he. “I assure you I’ll enjoy my food much better alone than I do with you feeding me.”
The girl seated herself at the bunk-side, holding the bowl out of his reach, and looked him quietly in the eyes. It was the first time she had appeared to notice his return to consciousness, and Reivers smiled quizzically at her scrutiny. She did not smile in return, merely studied him as if he were an interesting subject.
In the grey light of morning Reivers for the first time saw her with eyes cleared of the fever blur. His smile vanished, for he saw that this woman, to him, was different from any woman he ever had known before. And he had known many.
In her wide grey eyes there rode a sorrow that reached out and held the observer, despite her evident efforts to keep it hidden. But the mouth belied the eyes. It was set with an expression of determination, almost superhuman, almost savage. It was as if this girl, just rounding her twenties, had turned herself into a force for the accomplishment of an object. The mouth was harsh, almost lipless, in its set. Yet, beneath all this, the woman in Hattie MacGregor was obvious, soft, yearning.